


The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side

by trash_bat



Category: British Comedy RPF, Just Puddings (Web Series), Off Menu with Ed Gamble and James Acaster (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Breathplay, Ed Gamble's Thighs, Established Relationship, Food, James Acaster Is a Good Boy, M/M, New York City, Quiet Sex, Short & Sweet, Snowed In, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 23:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20629385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_bat/pseuds/trash_bat
Summary: A deeply belated contribution to the genre of "stuck in New York during a blizzard" fic. For the prompt: Ed's open-plan bedroom, getting overheard or caught having sex. Title shamelessly ripped off from the Magnetic Fields.





	The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side

What gets Ed is the quiet, more than anything. People are out, on foot, rather than in cars and taxis. The majority of the subway stops are open as well. In this town it’s business as usual, but the heavy wind has blown snow down into the stations. Means you have to watch where you step, the translucence deceptive, but it’s strangely beautiful, too.  
  
It’s harder to romanticize when they’re outside. Yes, the hush that had set in over the city was weirdly magical, and yes, James did have a perpetually red nose, but the wind? Even the natives have skipped out going to restaurants. At night, especially, the whole city seems to go sodium-still; artificial light seeps in to the little room Ed’s generously offered to take. It hasn’t got a proper door, but it at least has a queen-sized bed, though that fills up the majority of the space.  
  
_I don’t mind the sofa _ James had announced on their first night there, and John’d said _fine with me_ and promptly claimed the biggest bedroom for himself. Only the neighbours — they’re in 3R, so that would be the people in 3F — seem to spend most of their time shouting over the music they’re always playing at volume. And whose room butts right up against 3F? John’s, that’s whose, and Lloyd’s right beside it is not that much of an improvement.   
  
Which is why they’re to be found sat in the kitchen well into what would be dawn back home, the remains of a bottle of Knob Creek Single Barrel divided amongst three glass tumblers. James was taking the night off booze, which he's been doing a lot lately, and has already pled off, gone into Ed’s room to sleep. That couch experiment? Lasted approximately one night.  
  
“Could try tomorrow,” Lloyd is saying, and John gives him a withering look.  
  
“It’s a big fucking tree, mate,” he says, tipping the rest of his bourbon into his mouth. “We have them as well. Come from Norway. Big fuckers, those trees."  
  
“But it’s iconic!" Lloyd insists, his round face like a little boy's, pleading to get his way. "We can't be here and not see the bloody thing." He turns to Ed for support, "Right?"   
  
Ed swirls the last of the ice cube into his drink before replying. “Just stay here, we can go without you.” He'd frankly prefer it if Lloyd stayed behind himself, though he's far too polite to say so. A holiday with friends had its drawbacks. Now, Ed? Ed had done his research weeks - no, _months_ ago. Sussing out chocolatiers and cafés in midtown, saving to his maps places where people'd raved about the hot chocolate; the more elaborate the better as far as James was concerned, although Ed had found a few places that did it Spanish-style, with churros for dipping, and wanted to keep that open as an option. Just in case.  
  
That afternoon, when the four of them made an excursion to the slightly larger corner shop — he's the only one who calls it a bodega, and continues to do so even when John laughs at him. Two avenue blocks west and five short ones up, which took nearly half an hour because they were forced to walk in the street, single file, the one after the other. They’d returned back to the AirBNB laden with crisps, beef jerky, the bourbon, a random kombucha - Ed's pick, for his inevitable morning hangover, and, for James, several pints of Ben & Jerry’s. Some of which, he'd noticed, were flavours they stocked in the UK. It wasn't as if he'd be missing out on anything. Cookie dough was universal. Ten inches of snow on the ground, winds forty miles an hour, and yet the boy wanted ice cream? Unbelievable.  
  
The ice cube clinks against his teeth. A shiver runs down his spine. He really should brush but the bourbon tastes too nice. He settles for rinsing his mouth out with warm water after using the toilet and washing up.   
  
“Night." The other two, who are deeply engrossed in their conversation, barely notice Ed passing through. “We’ll see what the wind chill looks like tomorrow,” he says, and steps into his room.  
  
James has turned the lights out and is lying with his back to the open space where a door would normally be. No built-in closet, like many old buildings, but the room does have a wardrobe, one of those compact white IKEA things that reaches almost to the ceiling. If he swings that open it does a reasonable job of blocking out the view in both directions. John and Lloyd can't see him, and vice-versa. Not that he expects them to look, but as it’s certain to weigh on James’s mind Ed is more than happy to add that little layer of security. And to know that despite the possibility of getting caught out, James still can't bring himself to refuse. He won't say he wants Ed directly, but he's more than happy to lie there and take what's on offer.   
  
He walks around to the side of the bed closest to the window. It’s got a lovely view of the next roof over, the heavy snowfall blown into drifts that resemble abstract sculptures, the whole scene bisected by iron burglar bars. He glances down at James, who is very much awake and very much watching Ed as he opens the wardrobe far enough to make it feel safe. James rolls off the bed right away at Ed’s signal, and goes down to the floor with the lightest touch of Ed’s hand on his thin shoulder. It gets his fucking blood up how easy it is.  
  
Noises drift in from the kitchen; John’s voice insisting that they might as well finish the bottle between them, Lloyd’s slurred protest that leads to eventual acquiescence. Ed glances over to make certain that he’s basically obscured from view, and then down at the floor. James is also looking down, Ed notes, but his breathing is quicker than usual, the rise and fall of his chest painfully apparent through his shirt. His hands are twitching at his sides, like he wants to stop moving them but can't manage it on his own, and there's a pink flush climbing up the pale skin of his throat.   
  
Ed places his hand atop of James’s head and is rewarded with a soft little noise that makes him want to bite his own fist. Fuck, what he wouldn't give for a door, a hotel room for only the two of them. Who cares if the city's come to a crashing halt because of snow? They'll order room service; he'll work James over until he can no longer protest, and keep him like that, open and pliant. Fuck. A ruined holiday wouldn’t be quite so bad under those circumstances.  
  
“James,” he says, low as he dares without succumbing to a real whisper. Whispers aren't sexy. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”  
  
He swallows as if that will make the praise easier to stomach. Ed touches his face and says, “Eyes on me, yes?” which elicits only another quiet hum.  
  
“Yes?” he repeats, and is elated when James tips his chin up to look at him — though not in the eye, he notices. It’s like that tonight? Fine.  
  
“Yes Ed,” James mumbles and Ed rewards him with a kiss, leaning down until their mouths can meet, then gently untucking James’s legs from where they're tucked up beneath him until he’s laid back on the floor. Ed reaches up to pull a pillow from the bed, but as always he takes his sweet fucking time getting around to using it.   
  
The set-up means it's far too risky to eat him out or suck him off, which means that foreplay consists primarily of him lying alongside James, kissing him wetly, skin as hot as the radiator against his back that Ed's been unable to switch off, no matter how hard he turns the knob.

James is sweating, too, along his hairline and between his legs, and every time he tries to look away Ed tuts at him fondly until he stops. He’s got his gaze trained somewhere in the region of Ed’s sternum, although he throws his head back when Ed climbs atop him, using the weight of his thighs to keep James spread open. When his eyes fall shut again, in pleasure, it has to be said, Ed shifts himself up just enough to brush his lips across each of his eyelids in turn.  
  
James feels so fucking good like this, relentlessly tight, and naturally he has to vocalize that, which makes him wriggle under Ed’s grasp. He’d be lying if he said that didn’t excite him, too. But steady and secretive seems to be doing it for James, his lips parted, his breath warm against Ed’s face.  
  
Ed's dick twitches. It’s lovely to see James let go, forget himself, but it’s almost better watching his discomfort do battle with what he wants. Because what he wants, as Ed so graciously reminds him, is to get Ed atop him, balls-deep, until his own dick is dripping all over the place. Like it is now, actually.  
  
He grips James by the thighs and forces them down and apart even further, so they’re nearly resting against the carpet. Not that he can get much deeper up in there, which he also says, this time after scraping his teeth along James’s jaw, followed by another near-whisper just below his ear.  
  
“What do you think? I think I should fuck you like this more often.”  
  
James shakes his head yes, sweaty fringe matted to his forehead.  
  
“So _fucking_ deep." Ed grinds his own hips and angles them up to the best of his ability. Beneath him, James shudders in overtaken pleasure. Now, Ed’s introduced James to a lot of things. Wine stuff. Good restaurants. Eating with your hands. He’d taken to all those lessons well, but none so well as this. The first time Ed’s fingers had touched him there James had seemed like he was about to be ill before his features resolved into confusion, then the most pure, unselfconscious pleasure Ed had ever seen crossed his face. And that? Holy hell, that was intoxicating. Ed had to restrain himself from doing it all the time, just to see James react.  
  
“I won’t stroke you off,” Ed says, matter-of-factly, and James’s eyes grow wide and huge. Ah, _now_ he’s looking, isn’t he? Christ but that’s good. “I think you’ll have to do it for me.”  
  
From the other room, he can hear the kitchen taps running. God help them all if Lloyd has decided to clean up tonight. Last time he'd dumped the takeaway leftovers straight into the sink and tried to flush them down that way. He stills his movements, and when James lets out a harsh, pained whimper, Ed covers his mouth without a moment’s hesitation.  
  
“Don’t,” he warns. "We're not playing at that tonight." James’s eyes roll back. His breath streams hot from his nostrils. His teeth scrape a drawn-out _fuck_ against the palm of Ed’s hand.  
  
“Get in there. And go slowly.” He lifts up, his t-shirt brushing across James’s stomach, barely enough for James to slide his hand into. The tendons in his neck flex as he struggles against Ed’s strong hand keeping him quiet.  
  
He can hear John singing tunelessly. A car alarm sounds somewhere in the distance. The radiator clangs like the hammer of an old clock. The kitchen lights switch off at long last.

Ed pulls out the couple of inches that he can with his hand still in place, lifts James up to meet him, punches in with a few hard thrusts. His palm is completely wet from where James's tongue bumps up against it. He swallows, chooses his next words carefully. Too much and the moment will be ruined; too little and it won't be enough. 

“They’re gone to bed, James. But we can’t have you waking them up now, can we?”  
  
James blinks up at him, now totally focussed on Ed. He feels a weird surge of pride in his chest which quickly travels downward and into his dick. In perfect response, James gets as fucking tight as anything, and Ed says, quietly, “Go on, baby. It’s all right.”  
  
It pulls up a ragged noise that makes his hand vibrate from the resonance. James is moving faster on his own cock, and when he’s breathing hard enough to be mere seconds away, Ed slides his other hand out from beneath him to pinch his nose shut. James stiffens — an automatic reflex, a primal kind of fear. Once the panic subsides, Ed releases him. James sucks air in through his nose. Ed scrutinizes him to see if he needs to be released totally, but his eyes are dark, unfocussed, his mouth slack under Ed's hand. He's grinding up into Ed's pelvis, the little slag. If that isn't better than anything in the known world, Shropshire Blue included, then Ed hasn't met that particular pleasure yet.  
  
“Again?” Ed asks and James nods frantically. He's gorgeous like this, eyes wet and full, nostrils flaring, and fucking hell, how did Ed get so goddamned _lucky_?   
  
“Good boy,” he says, and does it again, and then again, until James is red-faced and presumably, gasping underneath where Ed has his mouth covered. “Good,” Ed repeats, “Fuck, James, you’re so fucking good,” and other stuff, endearments, praise, clear-cut instructions, until James arches up underneath him, a warm spill saturating his shirt, spreading between their overheated bodies.  
  
It’s too dim to see much, the only light the yellow glow seeping in from the window, but it’s enough. He pushes himself up onto his knees and scoots himself back, away from James's face. If only. But this'll do nicely, very nicely indeed. James’s elegant hands wrapped around his thighs, his long fingers reaching all the way to the back. He's moved closer and closer to touching Ed there, and that's progress indeed. His nose is dripping and he looks blissed out, relaxed enough that Ed could probably go back in if he wanted to. He groans at the thought, fucking his own slick fist before ruining James's shirt some more.

“That was nice,” James yawns, when they've detached themselves from one another and wiped off with the towel Ed had brought along for his personal use during the trip.   
  
“Mmph,” Ed agrees. The radiator is threatening to burn his back if they don't move shortly.   
  
“Hope they didn’t hear us,” he says, and something in his tone stabs at Ed’s conscience. He props himself onto one hand, cracks his neck, and tries to formulate a response that strikes the right tone: flirty, bossy, relaxed. However it takes him so long that by the time he’s mustered up the courage to say, “And what if they did?” James has fallen asleep. Ed has to shake him until he rises up onto his knees, graceful as you like, and hauls himself, using only his arms, up into the bed that they’ll share until they return home.


End file.
